


Papa John's

by mikie



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A Good Thing, Cute, M/M, Pizza, alex as a businessman, definition of fluff, with an excess amount of lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikie/pseuds/mikie
Summary: John has a pizza place. Alexander is the busy lawyer. You have to read for the rest.





	

John flipped the dough high over his head with ease, muscle memory allowing his eyes to wander to the grease stains on the speckled ceiling. He hummed along to the radio as he sprinkled cheese and sweet smelling spices onto the flattened dough before gracefully placing the work of art into the brick oven. Long curly hair fell out of his hairnet as he made his way back to the cash register. The blushing teen on the other side stumbled over her order as John flashed her the trademark Left Dimple. The line of people behind her showed various signs of distress as John held up the process again to flirt.  
“Y’ever heard of our Thursday special? The prettiest girls get a free song with their pizza.”  
The girl flipped her hair. “Do I pick the song? Or are we sticking to the outdated pop on the radio?”  
John took the pizza out of the oven. “Whaddah ya have against Paramore? Listen to this chorus,” He accepted the money and dinged the cash register as the radio competed over his voice “I should be over all the butterflies, I’m into you.”  
His off-key yet enthusiastic singing raised sporadic clapping from the lengthening line of people. John bowed dramatically and handed the swooning girl her pizza with a wink. She dumped a full 5 dollars into an old pickle jar next to the cash register that read: “Tipping isn’t just for cows”.  
He continued work with a smile, charming the old people and serving the fresh homemade pizzas at top notch speed. Constant dings of the bell over the door inspired his hands to put love into every slice of his specialty Ham and Pepperoni Calzones.  
John was in the middle of a phone call with a party of 20 when he caught a glimpse of an angry dude on the phone bursting through the door.  
“I told you, he knows nothing of loyalty. Smells like new money and dresses like fake royalty! Too desperate to rise above his station. We can’t trust him.”  
His straight black hair was tucked neatly into a small ponytail, leaving his light stubble and furrowed eyebrows on display. A dark trench coat, white button up, and black tie gave him an important aura that forced the middle aged mom ahead of him to move out of his way. One hand on a thick suitcase, one hand on a tablet as he balanced his phone between his shoulder and his ear. The passion in his voice travelled to the counter where John’s heart rate was speeding up. He quickly adjusted his hairnet and apron in preparation for the man to make his way to the front of the line.  
Each order from then on was accompanied by quick looks to the back of the line. The man in question let his warm brown eyes slide over the illuminated menu hung above John’s head and the miscellaneous signs taped to the deep red walls of the joint. Old war propaganda, US Navy signs, and hip hop posters brought character to the bustling corner shop.  
Finally it was the Dark-Trench-Coat-Guy’s turn in line. He drummed his fingers across the counter and gave John a meaningful look. Before John could mutter a word, he raised an eyebrow.  
“How come this restaurant name is Papa John’s? You realize that’s already a trademarked chain right?” He casually let his hip lean against the register.  
“We-”  
“I should know. I'm a lawyer. Fortunately I don’t handle the trying subject of copyright laws but if I did, I think you’d be in serious trouble Mr….”  
“It’s John,” he smiled down at the table, blushing from the attention Trench-Coat-Guy was giving him.  
“OH! That makes sense! Your name is John. Well, John- what was it? Was ‘Papa John’ your nickname growing up? Did your girlfriend name the restaurant for you after you dedicated a pizza name after her?” The man smirked at John, clearly enjoying seeing him struggle to get a word in.  
“Not quite-”  
“Whatever the reason, I think it fits, Papa John. I’ll have two slices of Alex’s Artichoke Pizza. Not a common topping, but it's one of my favorites so I’ll take it any chance I get.”  
“Coming right up” John found the man’s nonstop mind endearing, and smiled while sprinkling the artichokes onto the pizza. The color of his cheeks matched the tomato sauce.  
An hour later, the man was still seated at the corner booth of the restaurant, equipped with his laptop, phone, and tablet spread out onto the table. He alternated between vigorously typing on his computer, taking phone calls, and stealing bites from his fifth slice of Artichoke Pizza. (To John’s delight, the man had visited the counter two more times to ask for more of “the delicacy”.)  
The dinner rush came to a halt. John finally had some time to clean up the dining area. Armed with an old rag and a bottle of Windex he set out to snoop on Furrowed-Eyebrow-Guy. He found him in the corner, hair looking as frazzled as his eyes with a pencil stuck in his ponytail.  
“Whatcha typing?” John commented, trying and failing for a casual tone.  
“If we assume the debts the company gets a new line of credit and a financial diarrhetic…”  
John sputtered and nearly knocked over the cheese grater. “What?”  
“How do you not get it? If we’re aggressive and competitive, the company gets a boost when they’d rather give it a sedative.” The man sighed as if the sentence in front of him was causing physical pain.  
“Sounds… riveting?” The pizza maker slid into the seat across from the man in the booth.  
“A bit different from running a restaurant, I suppose,” he noted.  
Alex shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about that either. I know a guy. He does the business part.”  
The man looked up from his work and raised his eyebrow once more. “Seems like a guy you should keep around.”  
John sat up from the table and swatted Furrowed-Eyebrow-Guy with his rag, “Planning on it.” 

The restaurant carried on for more hours, a steady flow of families and couples clicking their sneakers and heels on the worn tiles. Ponytail-Guy remained in the corner booth, looking at home in the dark red wood panels. John created pizza after pizza, bringing a new song with every order. He sang with gusto in hopes that his corner booth friend would hear. The man’s constant corner clicking was outmatched by the radio, phone rings, door dings, and plate clatters. At 9 PM, the crowd from the bowling team shuffles in, dressed in matching “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gutter” shirts and demanding twelve Hawaiian Pizzas. John was forced to look away from the man now nervously biting his nails in the corner.  
Two more hours passed before the last dwindling customers exited the restaurant. Trench-Coat-Guy remained in his booth. His hair was now greasy from the constant dragging of his hand. John shuffled his feet to the door to flip the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. In a wave of exhaustion he pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the door.  
A voice came from the corner, “Long day?”  
John crawled back to the counter to retrieve his overflowing tip jar. “Worth it!”  
The man began to gather his things together into the briefcase as John dumped out his money onto the table.  
“How’s the Levi Weeks case going?” John inquired as he stacked his quarters.  
“It’s a big ol’ giant headache. But corruption’s such an old song that we can sing along in harmony and nowhere is it stronger than in Albany,”  
“So it’s illegal matter in Albany?”  
“Yes. And it’s important to me. I must make sure this claim is accurate”  
“Well, you’re a better lawyer than me,” John replied cheekily. “$96 in tips today. Better than yesterday.”  
“You seemed to be trying harder for tips today. Someone you’re trying to impress?”  
“Only you,” John slipped the money into a manilla envelope and returned to the kitchen. The man put his trench coat on and picked the briefcase off the table. The sounds of the radio accompanied John’s sweeping. He made his way around the counter to the kitchen and boosted himself onto the cutting table. He watched pensively as John tidied up the toppings and took inventory of the fridge.  
“You could be helping, you know,” John chided.  
The man swung his feet back and forth in a playful manner, “I’d rather sit up here. Great views.”  
He rolled his eyes. “Well I think I’m all set to close up shop. You got the keys?”  
The man dug the simple keychain from his trench coat pocket and jingled them for John to hear. “Now what kind of landlord would I be if I didn’t bring the keys?”  
John scribbled down a shopping list on a handy menu. “I believe ‘business partner’ was the agreed upon title.”  
“So that’s what you’d call us?” The man hopped down from the table and leaned into the counter John was opposite of.  
One more eye roll and John’s eyes would stick to the back of his head. “Let’s go, Alex. I’m hungry and I want something other than pizza for dinner.”  
Alex walked ahead of John to hold the door open. “I think we still have that leftover sushi from Monday.” He shut off the last of the lights and closed the door firmly behind him, locking it in place.  
“Ah yes, 3 day old sushi. Sounds… riveting.”  
“Such high standards you have, Papa John.” Alex took his hand and felt John’s cold silver ring brush against his right hand.  
“Clearly my standards aren’t that high if I married you.” John answered.


End file.
